The Exploits of Youth
by Thoughtsinmyheadspace
Summary: A bloody knife left in a kitchen sink, a flat that had been ransacked, and a cocaine addicted teen named Sherlock Holmes. What could possibly go wrong?


"I need sixty pounds."

Sherlock stands in his brother's doorway, leaning casually against the polished frame as he inspects the veins in his left palm.

Mycroft frowns, eyes barely pausing to flicker in the direction of his younger sibling before returning to his work. "Sherlock, you know I hate when you do that."

"Do what?"

"You know perfectly well what. A locked door is meant to keep unwanted visitors _out_, or have you deleted that information too?"

"Might've," Sherlock says lightly. _Play along_. He tosses aside the spent paper clip. "But really I assumed you'd have gotten more interesting security since the last time I saw you. Locks are so _dull_. "

"And the key code?"

"Child's play. Any idiot could see how only 1, 6, and 7 are ever used regularly on the keypad and there's only one number of any significance to you within those bounds, 6617, your dear Elisa's house number. Simple."

For a few moments Mycroft doesn't respond. Sherlock forces himself not to fidget but was that explanation too quickly -or too eagerly- supplied? He knows Mycroft will never miss the money but he has his overbearingly nosy days. He hopes this isn't one of them, but he'll lie if he has to.

Finally the elder Holmes sighs and swivels his chair to face the teenager.

Sherlock meets his eyes calmly and waits.

At last,

"You've improved, dear brother." Mycroft reaches into his wallet and pulls out a hundred. "Though I do hope you will remember in the future that knocking is an option at times."

Sherlock exhales imperceptibly, reaching for the bill and pocketing it deftly. "Knocking's slow."

His brother waves him off, already returning to the ammendment to the income tax law he's no doubt working on. Only the tax department uses that font in their reports and income tax has been more of a public concern than usual.

As he heads out, Sherlock hears Mycroft half-heartedly calling after him, "Next time ask Mummy. I don't have time to be constantly funding your experiments."

He ignores him, already striding away from his brother's manor with his pocket full of the promise of an even sharper mind, an escape, that exquisite rush of bliss.

He is glad he didn't have to lie to his brother. He does it when he has to and does it well enough, but he's never enjoyed it. Even the assumption Mycroft made was correct, to an extent… This _was_ an experiment. An ongoing one involving chemicals not entirely considered legal, but an experiment nonetheless.

A few streets and about a dozen alleys away, Charlie is waiting. The dimness of the evening reflected quietly in his dark figure as he slips out of the shadows.

"The regular?"

"Yes, of course." Sherlock shoves Mycroft's bill at him.

The dealer smirks as he slips the dark-haired teenager some change and his baggie of what could easily pass as sodium bicarbonate to the untrained eye, if stored in the right environment of course. "Someone's impatient today."

Sherlock doesn't bother responding, just takes the bag and walks away through the streets just beginning to be lit up by lamps. His heart pounds already with an almost gleeful anticipation, though soured considerably by the customary, unwelcome fear settling increasingly in his entire body as he nears the Holmes property. The too-big house that would never truly be his home.

_When I leave this place I'm going to move to a small flat in the middle of London where nothing's ever dull_, he decides then. Or was dream the right word?

The baggie feels heavier- though Sherlock knows it is simply an illusion, stupid to think of it as anything more- as he enters the house silently and retreats to his room. His father snores a few floors up and Sherlock closes the sound-proof door, breathing freely at last.

Settling in his customary window seat, his fingers tremble just the slightest as he looks at the innocuous baggie, inspecting the quality. This is a good batch. The sides of his mouth twitch up. Not a smile, but close.

It takes much of his self control to put the bag aside.

The need for it is already starting to dig on his insides but he knows he must be careful with his supply, has to reduce his intake. He cannot afford to become too dependent on the substance. Mycroft will start to ask questions if he finds Sherlock asking for money again within the next few weeks, so this has to last. _Now is not the time_, he only barely manages to convince himself.

Instead, he picks up his violin. His next-best option for escape, release.

Bowstrings glide gently back and forth across strings strung as tightly as his nerves as Sherlock plays.

Because there are only three cases in which Sherlock Holmes understands the meaning of his existence.

Case A: When he is conducting a particularly riveting experiment.

Case B: The instant of satisfaction as a person confirms his deductions to be correct.

Case C: When he plays his violin.

Problem is, there are only so many experiments he can do without the comfort of a well-stocked school laboratory, and there are only so many new faces in this oh-so-comfortable little neighbourhood far from the bustle of London to deduce.

So he plays, and he plays away the boredom, he plays away the hunger not for food but for the chemicals that feed his mind, and he plays away the emotions he cannot afford to feel.

* * *

><p>Leaning against the grimy brick wall, Sherlock slowly took a drag of his cigarette. He held the sweet smoke in his lungs for as long as he could before letting out it out in a single, shuddering breath. To the casual passerby, his loose stance and wandering gaze would have suggested nothing out of the ordinary.<p>

However, Sherlock's sharp, flickering gaze and the tightness around his mouth as he inhaled told an entirely different story. Having been a little too – ahem – _enthusiastic_ about last months supply meant that he was forced to arange an earlier meeting to get his fix.

But that in no shape or form meant that he was, _god forbid_, addicted to the drug.

"Took you long enough" Sherlock barely glanced to his right as he addressed the approaching footsteps. Turning to face his dealer, Sherlock tensed as his mind began to race.

_Slight limp in the left leg. Left arm held stiffly. Pockets empty. Smudged mud on his hood. _

Instantly on high alert, Sherlock dropped what was left of his cigarette and walked towards Charlie.

"The regular?" Charlie barely glances at Sherlock, oblivious to his piercing eyes.

_The slight tremer in his voice. Something's off, something big. _

"You're limping." Sherlock states matter-of-factly, eyes never leaving Charlie's.

"What does that have to do with anyth-"

"You haven't let me finish yet. You're limping, which suggests you've been in a fight, but why the leg? Most people, when attacking suddenly, attack with the hands and aim for the upper body. Yet your leg was targeted, indication a planned attack.

Furthermore, you're holding your left arm stiffly against your side, obviously you're in pain and yet have not seeked medical attention yet. You sell enough drugs to be able to afford to go to a clinic so it's not financial difficulties. No, more likely your injuries were received in less than, shall we say, legal circumstances and so you chose to avoid answering questions.

Your pockets contain nothing but the bare minimuns, yet every time I've seen you before, your pockets are buldging with cash and various drugs. So that indicated that you've ditched the possibly incriminating evidence. The mud on your hood suggests you've been sleeping on the streets for at least the last 2 days, if not longer, as the last rainfall was on Tuesday. And your fidgiting implies you're on high alert." Sherlock pauses for effect, smug as he sees the confusion and fear on Charlie's face. His deductions were right.

"How the hell could you possibly know all that? I don't even know your name."

"I know because while you merely see, I can observe and deduce. My name is irrelevent at this point and if you tell me what happened, I can help you figure out the truth."_ Finally, a challenge._

"Why are you even interested? This has nothing to do with you!" Charlie barely masks the doubt in his voice. He was tired of running and tired of hoping. Maybe this scrawny boy could help him, but what could he do? There would only be more trouble; it wasn't worth the risk.

"I could tell you your entire life story by just looking at you. Besides, you have no other options. You are low on cash and everyone else you know has refused to help you." There was no way Charlie could outtalk him.

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that." Charlie's eyes flicker back and forth as his internal debate raged on. "How do I know I can trust you?" his voice finally rings out into the darkened alley.

"You don't"

Charlie hesitates, eyes flicking away. At last, he gives in and begins his tale.

"I got home yesterday, around 1 in the morning, and I found my place turned completely upside down. All the drawers had been torn out and everything was thrown across the ground…"

As Charlie talked on, Sherlock could feel himself coming alive. This was what he had been looking for. He listened with rapt attention as his mind took in all the details and tried to piece them together. So far, 12 theories. Make that 7.

"…I went to the kitchen to check on, uh, my _supplies_, and found a kitchen knife soaked in blood in my sink."

Well this changes things.

"What type of knife?"

Charlie looks up, so caught up in his retelling that Sherlock's voice seems to have startled him out of a reverie. Confusion quickly seeps into his features.

"Does it matter? I don't remember what kinda knife it was cause gee, _I was too busy noticing the blood_!"

"Of course it does! How do you stand being trapped in your simple little mind, missing everything important." Sherlock huffs. _It must be so boring to be normal._

"Hey!" Indignation quickly replaces confusion. "I'm not going to stand here and be insulted."

"Fine, fine, continue on."

For a second it almost seemed as if Charlie was about to protest. Shoulders sagging in resignation, he decides to continue on. The damage was already done.

"I freaked out. I ran out of my apartment and spent the night at my buddy Jeff's place. The next morning, I head back to my place to try and figure out what to do. When I got there, the place was swarming with cops and they were talking about finding a murder weapon. I know it was the knife, I just know it."

Charlie is shaking.

"Why am I even telling you about this? Your just a bloody kid for God's sake." Charlie drops his head into his hands, distress obvious in his voice.

Sherlock could feel his blood rushing and his mind racing as all the possibilities presented themselves. This was better than any high he'd ever had.

"Take me to the crime scene," he directed at Charlie. He needed to see what had happened himself; he needed to find and deduce the details Charlie had missed.

The chase was on.

A/N: Next Chapter will be out sometime before Valentines day. Hope you guys enjoyed the story so far!


End file.
